“Having a civil conversation.”
“Instead of hissing at one another and continuing our hate fest?”
“Hateis a strong word.” Granted, it was one I’d used many times in reference to Lachlan. “You have to admit you were profoundly terrible to me in college.”
His neutral mask returned. “Right back at you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Did he seriously think my bossiness and micromanaging tendencies could compare to his past misdeeds? “You got me kicked out of college.”
Lachlan held up his wineglass and gave a mock toast. “Again, right back at you.”
I folded my arms on the bar and leaned into his space. “Have you suffered a head injury since we left school? How on earth do you figure I gotyoukicked out of college?”
Now it was his turn to glower. “You told the university that I, alone, was the mastermind behind our fateful boat ride.”
I’d been a junior and Lachlan a senior. Along with ten other students, we’d been selected for a summer term in Italy to pursue our respective studies at the famed Naples School of Business. I’d lined up an internship for the following senior fall semester with a renowned PR agency, and my transcript would’ve let future employers know I’d studied in an elite program abroad. I’d been poised to be in high demand. The world was my oyster.
Then Lachlan did his Lachlan thing.
Our summer group had become fairly close, and Lachlan had secured a boat to transport us along the coast of Capri to a tourist stop called the Blue Grotto.
“You told us you’drentedthe boat,” I reminded him, because apparently he’d rewritten the story in his head. Then he’d rammed said boat into the dark cave, and we capsized. We’d been lucky to come out unscathed. In the dark of the grotto, I’d swum to a touring boat and sputtered as they pulled me aboard.
“Not one of my finer moments,” Lachlan said, “and I do admit to paying for the boat rental. As for the rest, your old boyfriend shares significant blame—which, I recall so clearly, you denied when questioned by the authorities.”
Preston Westerfield of the Massachusetts Westerfields. We’d dated for two years, and after the semester in Italy, he’d broken it off and taken up with a cheerleader who liked parties, fast cars, and Boston accents. “After all these years, you still have trouble accepting responsibility.”
“I’ve owned my part.”
“But not the part where you took the boat without the owner’s permission, we all got in trouble, and had to pay for its repair. The fact that the owner was a very irate Italian dignitary was a nice plot twist, wasn’t it?” I held up a hand when Lachlan tried to interrupt. “And let’s not forget my absolute favorite part—we got expelled.”
Lachlan’s nostrils flared as he set down his fork. “Fine. You want an apology?”
“I’ve only waited years.”
“I’ll give you an apology.” Lachlan stood and tossed his napkin to the counter. “As soon as I get the one you owe me.”
ChapterSixteen
LACHLAN
Olivia still believedour debacle in Italy was completely my fault. It was water under the bridge—or in our case, the cave—but it still grated. There had been more to the story, and surely she’d known it even then.
“You won’t admit to being responsible for everything that happened?” she now asked again.
This woman didn’t deserve my Alfredo sauce. “What I admit to,” I conceded, “is making a lot of mistakes in my younger days. I earned quite a reputation and often lived up to it. My therapist would say I did the best I could with the tools I had.” I could tell I’d shocked her with that revelation. “Accept it—I’m a Renaissance man now.”
That almost got a laugh out of her. “You do cook well. I’m totally going to finish this before I call Poison Control.”
I should’ve focused on the lift of her haughty eyebrows, but my gaze snagged on the sight of her pink lips sealing around her fork of noodles, then her lashes lowering as she sighed in contentment. “Let’s agree not to talk about college anymore tonight, shall we? I was young and stupid. You were young and—”
“And?” She let the word hang there, a husky dare.
“Like everyone else, you saw what you wanted to see.” Remembering one more contribution to the meal, I pulled some French bread from the oven and set it between us. “Now pretend I’m a doting spouse and tell me about your day.”
“Why?”
Why, indeed? I should’ve gone to my office, shut the door, and returned to work. Or opened my laptop and replied to the fifty emails waiting for a response. Instead, I stayed right where I was and watched my pretend wife spread a thin layer of butter on her steaming bread. “I’m acting like a husband. It’s practice.”
